


Technicolour

by KimberlyAnnHart



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, Memory Loss, Pupcake - Freeform, almost complete lack of homophobia, get that shit outta here, i'll just add to the character list as the chapters go on, i'll just add to the tags as the chapters go on too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10056101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimberlyAnnHart/pseuds/KimberlyAnnHart
Summary: "It'll be like meeting again, won't it?"





	1. Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> In this specific AU, everyone sees in black and white until they find their soulmate, and then lose the colour-vision when their soulmate dies. It's also still the 1950s-60s so I took some liberties with how society thought about this stuff back then.

**February 27th, 1960**  
**12:09am**  
Patsy was no stranger to hospitals at midnight. Her time working at The London was mostly daytime or evening shifts, but she’d spent enough nights here for the eerie emptiness to have lost its edge on her. She was used to the vast silence, broken only by the occasional clack of footsteps in the distance, that faded in and out of earshot as their owner travelled from one ward to the next; the clocks that loomed high on the wall and clicked at patients and nurses obnoxiously; the buzzing lights out in the hall that seemed to flicker only after visiting hours had ended. And then there was the new wave of serene stillness that washed over her whenever a fellow nurse passed her a cup of tea or coffee – whatever the night called for, they all seemed to just _know_ who needed the extra bit of energy. They would stand there in the quiet, just them and the clocks on the wall and the knowledge that they were doing their best to help people, in this weird liminal space where people came and went but _they_ (mostly) stayed the same. Nobody was close enough to ever call each other family – there was always the chance other girls would leave, seconded and transferred and sacked, only to be replaced with someone new – but there was enjoyment in knowing that there was company without commitment. After staying here longer than any other nurse her age, she felt safe to say that it was, perhaps, the closest thing she’d ever had to a proper home.

Right now, it was midnight, and she was back in this hospital, but not as a nurse. And it felt as though everything she’d ever considered to be so homely was twisting inside her like a knife. Thankfully she wasn’t a patient either – and she hated to compare her suffering to the well and truly sick, but right now she felt as though being a visitor was the worst thing imaginable. The itchy eyes and the dry throat, the loss and emptiness and the feeling as though she hadn’t sleep for a week. It was unbearable, and the worst part was that as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t leave. 

The silence was taunting her: every new set of footsteps sounded as though they were coming towards her, to be the bearer of bad news or tell her to get out. On the wall, the clock was deafening, and while she’d usually been able to drown them out, tonight she had no such luck. And out in the hall, the buzz of flickering lights seemed totally inconsiderate towards her still being here, still visiting, and no matter which way she angled herself she couldn’t quite get them out of her peripheral vision. It’d drive her over the edge, if she wasn’t exhausted from her earlier meltdown. But, even for someone who bottled up their emotions so tightly, one could only last so long. It had tapered off at around nine o’clock, leaving her at the mercy of her sterile surroundings as they sapped away at everything inside her. Now, she just felt empty and vulnerable. 

Once in a while, she brought herself to look across at Delia, and every time she did her heart felt like it was going to rip itself up again. The lights overhead, and her poor state of health, left her looking washed out and pale. Ghostly was the word Patsy would use, if she weren’t so afraid of the connotations. But the fact still stood that her face had drained of colour, save for the angry purple-and-blue bruises covering her cheekbones and forehead and the dried blood on the inside of her nose. If it weren’t for all that, Patsy would’ve assumed her world had returned to greyscale; ironically, all this damage was the only thing reminding her that her soulmate was only lying unconscious, and not dead. 

A shock of anxiety shot straight through her chest at the very thought of it. The panic she’d felt earlier in the day when, for a split second, her world turned colourless, was still fresh in her memory. If the blow to Delia’s head had been strong enough to – in Patsy’s mind – momentarily interrupt whatever bond they shared, then there was no telling whether or not she’d wake up again. But the redhead was hoping – praying, even, although she hadn’t done that in years, that she would.

Christ, it hadn’t even been a year. As harsh as the world could be, it surely couldn’t be _this_ cruel: to finally give you someone you’d been waiting all your life to meet, and then rip them away so soon after? 

Patsy, for once in her life, willingly reflected back on her life in the internment camp, and all the horrors she’d seen so young, and decided that perhaps it could be.

Midnight now seemed forever ago. The clock on the wall now fast approached two in the morning, and sleep was becoming harder and harder to fight off. Delia’s left hand was gripped tightly between her own, still and cold with a slowly strengthening pulse thudding beneath her wrist. Over and over again, Patsy smoothed her thumb over the other’s ring finger, over the gold band that was as cold as she was. In her mind, images of a doctor cutting it off tormented her and left her on the verge of tears once again. 

_‘This is what happens when you love people, Patsy,_ she scolded herself sharply, _‘If you’d just kept pushing her away, she’d be fine,’_

That had been her philosophy with everyone before Delia: if you don’t care for them, it won’t hurt when, one way or another, they leave. And, for a while, she’d tried to apply it to this relationship too. But clearly when it came to people who were…biologically or mentally connected or destined to be or whatever the theory was nowadays, it wasn’t that easy to keep them at arm’s length. Delia had snuggled up close (in the emotional and physical sense) and no matter how high Patsy had tried to build walls around herself, they’d been flimsy at best and ultimately gave way in the end.

Watery eyes turned to proper tears without Patsy noticing until the cold started to cling to the wet tracks down her cheeks. At this point, she was too tired to try keep her emotions under wraps anymore. Pressing her forehead down against Delia’s hand, her shoulder trembled with the effort of keeping from sobbing too loudly, and waking other patients. In hindsight, it felt like there was so much she could’ve done to prevent this. So much that could’ve landed the other girl anywhere _except_ under the wheel of a car. Whatever decision might have changed the outcome, Patsy couldn’t think of what it could’ve possibly been – not that it would change anything now. 

As exhausted as she was, Patsy well and truly _fought_ to stay awake. She wholeheartedly needed to be consciously present for every seizure, every need to call for the nurse or the doctor, every time they mentioned the odds of her waking up again – which seemed to dwindle by the hour. 

However, two o’clock turned to three o’clock, and then three o’clock suddenly turned to six o’clock. The next thing she knew, she’d dozed off with her face pressed against Delia’s hand (an indentation on her cheek to prove it, where she’d lain against her wedding ring), and hadn’t stirred until someone begun nudging her shoulder. She startled out of her sleep, almost jumping out of the uncomfortable plastic chair she’d spent all night in. For a moment, she feared the worst, the exact reason why she hadn’t wanted to sleep: that when she took a look around, she’d see nothing but grey and black and white and a lifeless body beside her. Her eyes stayed trained on the thin cotton sheets for as long as she could get away with it, but eventually she had to give her attention to whoever had woken her.  
Delia’s mother. A loving but overbearing woman who perhaps tried far too hard to protect her daughter – a trait which had her and Patsy on rocky terms from the very beginning. And after all this, she couldn’t exactly see a friendship blossoming anytime soon. In fact, she rather expected to be _detested_ after the events of the past twelve hours. 

But the older woman looked tired with worry – far too tired to be throwing the blame around – and somewhat sympathetic. Her hand was still on Patsy’s shoulder and it was then that the redhead realized she must’ve looked quite a sight: smudged makeup from the day before, blotchy cheeks and cracked lips, not to mention messed hair and dark eyes. 

“I…I’ve been here all night,” she tried to explain. But her voice croaked and her chest shuddered with a fresh wave of emotions, threatening to make a mess of her again. The older woman who stood above her gave a weak smile, but there was no attempt made to hide the pity, and the worry, and the downright fear. Beside her, her husband was entirely silent, with his gaze directed down at the hat he gripped onto tightly. He was maybe an inch taller than Patsy, but any presence he might have normally commanded with his height alone was now diminished to nothing. Perhaps, just like his daughter-in-law, he was half in fear of Delia never waking up again.

“Go wash up,” Mrs. Busby said, looking over Patsy with a concerned expression, “You’ve done more than enough.”

The thought of leaving, even for a moment, made her heart race fearfully. “But I –”

“We’ll sit with her now.”

It was an order. Despite being twice the older woman’s size, Patsy was very nearly lifted out of her seat and disposed of out in the hall, like a stray cat being shooed out of the local fish market. Feeling a little indignant, she contemplated marching straight back through those doors; but one step forward and her muscles ached in protest, her head pounded and her stomach started growling loudly. She hadn’t eaten, or moved from that chair, or even _changed_ since late yesterday afternoon. So perhaps, if she rushed, she could take care of those things and be back in no time flat. 

She spent the most time (only four and a half minutes) at the sink of the lavatory, splashing cold water over her face. Three hours of sleep was hardly enough to work off, but she couldn’t afford to rest now. Cold water and the familiar chill of an early morning would have to be enough to get her through the day.

Unfortunately, like all bathroom sinks, there was a mirror above this one too. And Patsy couldn’t for a second pretend that she didn’t know she looked downright horrid. What little amount of makeup she usually wore had been washed away, but her hair was still sticking out at all angles and her eyes were underlined with dark circles. The hair was easily fixed: every single pin was meticulously pulled out and it was rearranged into plaits with little effort. As for the rest of her appearance…it just couldn’t be helped. Luckily, in the middle of a hospital, she didn’t exactly need to pretend to be happy. Nobody else cared how well she was keeping it together.

Eating would’ve meant venturing outside the hospital, and changing would’ve meant going back to Nonnatus altogether – both strayed too far from Delia for her liking. She decided to go back, the distance already beginning to drive her up the walls. Her feet were already blindly carrying her back towards the ward Delia was admitted to, going as quick as they could without breaking into anything faster than a brisk walk.

Delia’s father stood outside the double doors, shifting his weight from one foot to the other anxiously, like he was trying his hardest not to start pacing. He raised an eyebrow at Patsy as she approached, so soon after they’d sent her off to take care of herself, but she wasn’t about to be turned away again. Luckily, Mr. Busby seemed like much less of a force to be reckoned with than his wife: right now he was too overwhelmed, too busy trying to wrap his head around something to say anything at all to her.

Or it seemed that way. As Patsy drew closer, he turned towards her, placing a hand on her shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, then repeated the action a few times as he tried to put whatever was in his head into words. Patsy’s heart thudded loudly in her chest, trying to prepare itself to hear terrible news.

“She’s awake,”

Considering Delia might not have even woken up at all, this should've been great news. Nothing could’ve been better to hear, but Patsy didn’t even crack a smile. She was _terrible_ at reading people, but even she could tell that there was something off. Something in his tone, his face, the way he was fidgeting nervously, told her that things weren’t that simple. 

Patsy’s mind was already running through all the things that could be wrong. All the ‘but’s and ‘however’s and ‘although’s. All the catches and conditions and things in fine print. And before she could even decide whether or not she was ready, she was already striding through the doors as if she possessed more confidence than she actually had. 

Seeing Delia awake, after too many hours sat by her bedside wondering ‘what if’, brought tears prickling at the corners of Patsy’s eyes again. Immediately she all but pushed past the nurse to sit back in the plastic chair. 

Delia didn’t look better. She didn’t look well at all. She didn’t even look entirely present: her eyes were wide open and in them, amidst the very first color Patsy had ever seen, swirled a horrid mix of confusion and pain and fear. They squeezed shut with each wave of pain that rushed through her head, her face screwing up so much it was starting to irritate the gravel rash on her temple. Her chest was heaving with panicked breaths as she looked from the attending nurse, to her partner, to her mother. Mrs. Busby tried to hold her hand, provide her with some comfort, but Delia looked so wildly confused that she pulled away violently at every attempt, which prompted another stab of pain in her skull, which started the whole vicious cycle all over again. 

“Delia?” Patsy prompted, leaning on the edge of the bed a little. It wasn’t uncommon for patients with head trauma to be confused, but that didn’t mean she knew the first thing about keeping them calm. The brunette didn’t seem to hear her spouse at all; she struggled to properly pull herself upright but stopped almost immediately, a pained expression returning to her face. She gasped quietly, freezing up and turning rigid. Tears sprang to her eyes, which glazed over as her expression turned from pained, to fearful, to woozy. 

Then, with an admittedly impressive show of determination, she rolled onto her side and threw up over the opposite side of the bed. And all over her mother’s shoes. 

Patsy would, any other day, be biting back a grin at that. While she didn’t _hate_ Mrs. Busby, the look of disgust on her face would normally make the redhead’s whole day. As the older woman scrunched up her nose, and the nurse tried to clean the mess while explaining this and that about how nausea can be brought on by concussions, Patsy leaned closer to smooth Delia’s hair away from her face. With little effort, she pulled her into an upright position, and used it as an excuse to sit on the edge of the hospital bed.

Things were starting to feel overwhelming. The matron had bustled over, kicking up a fuss about the mess and chewing into the nurse about protocols – the poor girl was definitely new, but Patsy had no sympathy. Her heart was thundering in her ears and her chest was starting to constrict again, but she had to try keep it together. It wouldn’t help Delia if she was inconsolable. While the nurse hastily mopped the floor and tried to keep out of the way, the matron seemed unfazed – despite the patient being someone she knew and worked with – as she studied the clipboard, checked her watch, then administered a generous dosage of painkillers.

Within mere seconds, Delia was sleepy-looking. Her eyes, although struggling to keep open for longer than a few seconds, stayed fixated on Patsy’s face. Her eyebrows knitted together, her expression puzzled. The redhead smiled warmly, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes stubbornly as she kissed the back of her partner’s hand. 

But the Welsh girl only looked more confused, and slowly pulled her arm back to her chest.

“You’re crying,” she observed, her voice crackly and feeble. With a restrained sob, Patsy shakily retrieved the untouched glass of water from the bedside stand, handing it to Delia’s mother before wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

“A-Am I?” Patsy smiled weakly at her, hoping that maybe she could get away with the tough act. But her vision wobbled under the threat of more tears, and her expression faltered as she hid her face in her hands. 

Delia was awake. She was _alive_ , at least – and eventually she’d be okay again. The outcome was so much better than it could’ve been. So why did Patsy still feel like she’d lost something special to her?

Her shoulders had only started to shudder, a second wave of sobs making an appearance when delicate fingers touched the back of her hand slowly. Glancing up hesitantly, not sure whether she wanted an entire ward of patients and nurses to see her like this, she found Delia looking directly at her, eyebrows furrowed together tightly. Ignoring her mother and the glass of water, her finger smoothed once over the wedding band that matched her own, before catching her eye and pulling back quickly. 

It wasn’t like her, to be so bashful with her affection. But, Patsy considered, maybe she wasn’t as self-assured when her mother was sitting _right there_ , with vomit on her feet…

Sniffling, the redhead tried again to smile through it all. “You had us worried, love,” 

Delia frowned, only looking more confused. Her eyes looked Patsy up and down, calculating, but not seeming to reach whatever answer she was looking for.

“You were in an accident, cariad,” her mother offered, reaching forward to take her other hand, “You hit your head. Badly.”

“Oh,” was all the brunette could really say. She stared into her lap, looking mildly concerned. A severely understated reaction, in Patsy’s opinion. She thought Delia might go on, ask more questions, once she’d thought it through a little. The cogs in her head seemed to be turning, her gaze hovering over Patsy’s hand again.

Then she lifted her head, her eyes meeting the redhead’s, still confused and cautious and…untrusting. 

“And you’re my nurse?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Patsy hardly registered the severity of the question, mouth hanging open in shock.

“I…”

What kind of a question was that? She wasn’t even in her uniform. The fact that Delia could think that…clearly, she was still confused. That’s all it was, she tried to tell herself. But the worst outcome, the possibility of something more severe than a simple concussion, was starting to weigh down on her mind.

“Don’t be daft,” she gave a hollow smile, “You…You know me, Deels.”

She expected the long silence to be followed by relief, as Delia’s expression melted into some sign of recognition. A pained smile and sleepy laugh and an _“I don’t know what came over me, love,”_

But all she got was a blank stare.

“…I do?”

“Yes!” she strained to keep her voice down, but nurses and the matron were still casting worried glances in their direction, “You should! How could you not –?” 

She knew the answer to her own question well enough. Head trauma had many side-effects, amnesia being just one – she knew that. Now she felt downright stupid, for not expecting something like this in the first place.

Of _course_ it wasn’t going to be simple. 

She supposed she should’ve felt her heart shatter – she expected to, anyway. And judging by the way Delia’s mother looked at her, like she was waiting for a bomb to go off, she expected it too. But she just felt numb instead, which felt even worse than any outburst. Once again, her legs did all the moving for her: she stood from the edge of the bed, blinked a few times – like some final, failed attempt to process it all. Mrs. Busby asked after her, looking just as frazzled and upset, but it just seemed to blend in with the background noise. Unsure of what else to do, Patsy turned and walked out of the ward of her own volition this time. 

She’d experienced shut-downs before. Sadly, they weren’t anything new to her. But the causes had always been in the same strain: nightmares, flashbacks, typhoid outbreaks, barbed-wire fences where she least expected to see them. It had always been those same things, ever since the war ended. Knowing what to avoid usually kept her out of situations like this. But never, at any point in the past year, had she felt like this because of Delia – the idea in itself, that she could’ve caused something like this herself, was ridiculous. It’d never even been a possibility.

But here she was, letting herself clam up because the one person she’d had in the past twelve months to calm her down, couldn’t even remember her.

 _‘It’s not like you treated her like a soulmate,’_ she thought miserably, stepping out into the frozen air and sitting down stiffly on the closest bench, _‘All you did was upset her. You deserve this,’_

And maybe _she_ deserved it, but Delia certainly didn’t. The look on her face said it all: she didn’t recognize anything around her. Not her mother, not the hospital. It was worth wagering that, at this stage, she couldn’t even remember her own name, either. The thought made her feel sick to her stomach; maybe if she’d eaten anything at all in the past ten hours, she’d be having a worse time of it. Instead, all she could do was sit and tremble in the cold, nausea coming through in brief waves whenever she pictured Delia – _her_ Delia – lying there with absolutely no grip on anything at all.

She needed a cigarette. Badly. But she’d gone through the whole pack (a brand new one, too) overnight. Patsy wasn’t normally one to feel the strain of withdrawals, but the sudden absence of an outlet was starting to make her _itch_. It made the anxiety build up quicker. And she didn’t like letting her emotions loose, even when alone, but the figurative rug had been pulled out from under her so suddenly that she found herself unable to refrain from crying into her hands again. She’d lost count of how many times she’d sobbed herself hoarse over the past night alone, but she knew it’d been enough that she’d stopped caring who saw her by now. And, secretly, she was glad to be a mess: for once in her life, she was conscious of what other people might think of her if she didn’t show any emotion at all. 

Socially, she was supposed to care about Delia a great amount ( _legally_ , it didn’t really matter how they felt about each other as long as there was a wedding involved). Everyone around here had been so keen on reminding them what they were expected to do and how they were expected to act. Easy to say for some of them, who were still searching in hope of meeting their certain someone. But it wasn’t quite that easy to love a stranger, especially when you knew you had no choice. ‘Love at first sight’ had always been a ridiculous concept to Patsy, anyway. It seemed impossibly unrealistic – she was a rational person, after all. And the idea of there being someone made for everyone, that you would automatically adore all your life from the very second you met them, that you could love without knowing a thing about, seemed like the most irrational thing of all.

But Delia had been eager right from the beginning. All you had to do was look at her to know she was in love.

Admittedly, at the time, Patsy would’ve been quite content with parting ways and leaving no evidence – save for the newly coloured world around her– that they’d ever met at all. 

But God, how could she have done that to someone, even a total stranger? It hadn’t been easy; for the longest time, the only thing that kept her going was the fear that, should she leave, she’d be forever burdened by one burning question: _‘what if I’d stayed?’_

Well, she’d stayed. For a year and two months. And for most of that time, she detested this whole soulmate system. Hell, she’d even detested Delia some days. But for once in her life she wound up swallowing her pride and letting someone into her life. Letting herself _actually_ love someone, after so many failed attempts at pushing them away. 

And this was what had happened. This was the result of her mind screaming _‘what if?’_ : freezing to the bone outside a hospital, at half-six in the morning, remembering why she decided not to let people in. And now amidst all the fuzz and white noise of her mind, there was a new question beginning to torment her:

_‘What if I’d left?’_

* * * * *

Things were starting to get busier when Patsy trudged back once again. Early morning was a busy time: it was when people woke up to new ailments, or ones from the previous night that they’d mistakenly thought sleep could fix. It was when people rushed to get to work on time, and wound up in accidents. It was when people made fatal mistakes amidst their drowsiness. Patsy was used to it – again, as a nurse and a nurse only. Anything else felt foreign. But being part of the crowd for once didn’t stop her pushing through. Even without her uniform, she had a presence that wasn’t ever questioned. She carved through the throng of nurses and doctors and worried new patients like a hot knife through butter. And things felt clearer now. Maybe, without all the fuzziness, she could find the bravery to actually talk to Delia, and not run away this time.

The first thing she noticed was that the brunette already looked a great deal better than she did an hour ago. She was still sat up in bed, holding a glass of water by herself now. The slightly drowsy look on her face suggested the painkillers were doing their job, and by the looks of it she was holding an albeit staggered conversation with her mother – one that came to an abrupt halt the moment she saw Patsy.

Patsy felt her heart twinge at the expression on her face. There was no smile, or apologetic glance, no semblance of recognition. Only confusion and remorse and the slightest telltale sign of tears welling up in her eyes. Patsy wanted to go to her…but she didn’t. She stopped at the end of the bed and gripped onto the cold metal frame to stop herself from possibly fidgeting. For what may have been a few awkward minutes, neither of them said anything; quite a few times, Patsy looked up with an idea of what to say, before it fizzled out and left her with nothing to do but look away again shamefully. Whether Delia was going through the same struggle, she couldn’t tell. Whenever she looked up, the only thing she saw was the guilt written all across her face. 

Unsurprisingly, her mother was the one to break the silence. 

“Looking a bit peaky,” she commented. Patsy jumped a little and looked at the older woman. Mrs. Busby had always been a worrier, especially when it came to whether her daughter was eating enough. She couldn’t remember one visit that she didn’t ask Delia if she was eating enough, or if she had enough milk. But what surprised her was that she wasn’t addressing Delia, she was looking directly at _her_. 

Again, neither of them were on bad terms with the other, but Patsy couldn’t exactly say she was favoured by her mother-in-law. She always assumed it was because, deep down, the stern woman had always held a glimmer of hope that her daughter would, one day, see sense and return back to Wales – and stay there. But then, of course, she just _had_ to find her soulmate in the very _last_ place her mother wanted her to be, and there was no doubt about whether she was staying. The news wasn’t…entirely well-received. 

So the fact that Mrs. Busby seemed to show actual concern for her daughter-in-law once, let alone for the second time today, was shocking to say the least. “I’ll bring something back.” She stood from the chair and patted her daughter’s hand sadly before turning away. As she passed, Patsy noticed the redness around her eyes and made the guess that Delia definitely didn’t remember her either. And as imperious as Mrs. Busby could be, maybe she was using this as an excuse to give herself some space.

With the seat beside Delia’s bed free once again, Patsy was now forced to debate whether to sit down beside her for the third time today. She supposed this was where all that soulmate stuff she found so farfetched really counted – whether she could put on a brave face and weather the storm when her other half _couldn’t_. And now that she was faced with it, she wasn’t entirely sure she could gather the courage. Or, really, if she even had it to begin with…

Delia stared up at her expectantly, and the redhead had to remind herself: _‘However scared you are, she must be feeling it tenfold,’_. Hesitantly, she sat on the end of the bed and gave Delia a weak, barely-there smile.

And Delia smiled back.

“…You aren’t a nurse, are you?” she asked sadly. Her left thumb curled upwards, smoothing along the underside of her ring, “You sound a bit like one…”

“Do I?” Patsy laughed feebly. If she weren’t so horribly dehydrated, the tears would be making a reappearance. 

“But you’ve been crying. You’re too sad to be my nurse.” She stopped herself from going on, and nervously took a tiny sip of water. The entire time, she watched Patsy over the brim; true to form, her mind was so clearly continuing to turn over every little detail, even now. Patsy could see it in her eyes, even when they were glassy and half-lidded. 

“Are you a friend of mine?” she finally questioned.

“Yes,” the redhead whispered, calm this time around, “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

“And that other woman…that was my mam,” she continued, “And I’m Delia. And we’re in London.”

Patsy nodded. “Yes, that’s right. And your father’s waiting right outside those doors.”

“Was he crying too?”

“I suspect he was.”

“Oh.” Delia dropped her gaze to her lap. A few tears rolled down her nose and as much as Patsy wanted to wipe them away, she was highly conscious of the gravel rash. Her breath hitched, she rocked forward a little, and curled her fingers tightly around the glass in her hands. 

As Patsy reached for the cup, to pull it away before it could be spilled or broken, Delia suddenly tugged on the sleeve of her olive-green cardigan. It certainly wasn’t a cheerful or particularly interesting colour, but she was fixated on it nonetheless. Then her eyes trailed upwards, still tearful, and settled on the bright red of Patsy’s messed-up hair. She smiled again, this one brighter than the last.

“Have we been friends long?” she said.

She had the fabric of the cardigan pinned shakily between her fingers, nearly holding on for dear life. As gently as she could, Patsy covered them with a hand of her own. “A little while,” she said, “Just over a year. December of 1958, I think it was.”

As if she couldn’t remember the exact date, down to the very minute - even if she never wanted to be that invested, she could never shake the small details. But she’d been practicing, recently, with not coming off too strong. This was a good a place to start as any. She caught Delia’s eye and gave her hand a small squeeze. The poor thing couldn’t remember her mother or her own name, but she could see colours still and just knew what they meant. And that had to count for something.

“Are you the reason why things are so…?” she trailed off with a sniffle. Her eyes were still glued to Patsy’s hair, her mouth hanging open a little. And Patsy couldn’t help but laugh tearfully.

“You looked at my hair the exact same way when we first met,” she sighed, “I think...you told me it was the first colour you ever saw. That you never knew the world could be so bright.”

Amidst Delia’s guilt and upset, her eyes glimmered a little as she tried to lean a little closer. Normally, Patsy was strict about patients staying in bed, but how could she push the other girl away now? She looked so…content. Take away the bruises and cuts, and you wouldn’t think there was anything wrong at all. 

“And this?” the brunette lifted her hand between them, fiddling with the ring on her left hand once again. Of course, she seemed to already know the answer – her cheeks were already turning red. Better than no colour in her face at all. “Is this you too?”

Patsy nodded eagerly, starting to actually feel like her heart might not be permanently broken. Like there was some silver lining, however vague. And the look of thrill on Delia’s face made her heart thud loudly. But, inevitably, it dropped back to a miserable expression as quickly as though the wind changed.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember you at all,” she mumbled, “And I should, but I…”

“It’s _not_ your fault,” Patsy interrupted sternly, “You were in an accident. If anything the driver of that car is at fault.” She scrunched up her nose, only glad that she hadn’t actually met the man who’d hit Delia. If she had, she might have just sent him sprawling.

“We’ll get by somehow,” she assured the other. Starting to feel confident enough, she rubbed the back of Delia’s hand in gentle circles, “Your memory might still come back. And if it doesn’t…”

She didn’t like that option. The thought of Delia having new and drastically different opinions of her was almost terrifying. It wouldn’t change that they were together – they _had_ to be, it’d been hammered into their heads by their friends and family for months. But, if they had to, Patsy would rather prefer it if Delia was back to her old self.

“It’ll be like meeting again, won’t it?” the Welsh girl asked hopefully, “Only…you must know everything about me already.”

“A great deal, but not everything,” Patsy said, leaning her elbows on the bed, “When you’re well-rested, I can tell you whatever you’d like to know.”

The gesture just about brought Delia to tears again. She dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, smiling all the while. “I’d like that,” she hiccoughed, “I’d really, really like that.” 

But after a moment of thought, she seemed to decide that she couldn’t wait for rest. “…Will you tell me something now?”

“Now…?” On top of being exhausted herself, Patsy was certain that Delia would need plenty of rest. But Delia, as always, had other ideas. The fact that the painkillers hadn’t knocked her out in five minutes flat was already astounding. To suddenly be in the mood for a story despite that was…very much like her. 

So of course, Patsy couldn’t turn her down.

“Where would you like to start?”


	2. The Colour Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a brief but somewhat graphic description of surgery in this chapter. I don't think it fits under the graphic violence warning, but please tell me if I should add any warning tags.

**December 28th, 1958**  
**12:09am**  
Patience Elizabeth Mount was extremely particular about how she liked her life to be – one could even venture so far as to call her picky. She absolutely had to follow a set of steady rules, and while she was young and still finding her feet and was by no means expected to get everything right, she didn’t often give herself much room for error. 

First and foremost, everything absolutely _had_ to be neat. While her belongings didn’t have their own personal to-the-millimetre placement in her room, they certainly had to look orderly, and their arrangement had to be at least somewhat pleasing to the eye. She didn’t have much of a knack for aesthetics, but given she was lodging in a tiny room in the nurses’ home, she could afford to be lenient on that front. Although her world had been in pure greyscale thus-far, things were colour coded excessively. Her calendar, her diary, the old notes she kept from her days of lectures and placements and exams – all of it was sorted by colour. Or, in her case, varying shades of grey.

On top of being neat, things had to be spotless. There’d always been…something about dirt that bothered her. Something that ate away at her if she didn’t bleach-clean everything in sight. She worked in a hospital, after all; it was a place for wellness and recovery, but ironically it was also a melting pot of viruses waiting to be transmitted – whether through the air or water or skin-to-skin contact. Protocols with sterilisation were top-notch here, but as nobody possessed the skills to see the germs with the naked eye (yet), it was better to be safe than sorry.

Thirdly, she liked to keep to a routine. This rule was slightly more flexible: most days had their schedules, which she had to follow to the letter. Sudden sickness or injury never sat well with her when it interfered with this. But on days when she was free, with no prior engagements to see to, she was quite content with either seeing where the day took her, or doing nothing at all.

Of course, there were other little rules, but she limited the essentials to those three, and nothing more (and certainly nothing less). The smaller things weren’t extremely important for her to follow each and every day, but cleanliness, order and routine were absolutely essential if she wanted to keep a level head and an even temper. 

With that in mind, it was fortunate that she worked at The London, because where else would she find that sort of cleanliness and orderliness? There were clinics and convents and other hospitals dotted all over London, and she had plenty to choose from if she so chose to take a different path, but now that she’d experienced the very best (in her opinion), how could she ever hope to be satisfied with anything else? She’d been a nurse here for nearly three years – that fact was just as much a part of her routine now as what times she woke up and went to sleep.

And it was an agenda she was quite pleased with: she worked all week barring Saturdays and every third Sunday of the month. Once a week – sometimes twice if there was risk of an epidemic – there was compulsory deep-cleaning of all the wards. All the other nurses complained about it, but Patsy thrilled at any excuse to actually use bleach without feeling self-conscious about going overboard. She suspected the others just didn’t like it getting in the way of their social lives; she didn’t have one, on account of the fact that she was probably the least approachable nurse in the entire hospital and therefore didn’t have any friends. So she didn’t care much.

Even on her off-days, she’d rise with the morning bell at seven to eat breakfast before either returning to her room or heading out for the day. But most of the time she’d continue on to work in her starched uniform at eight in the morning until eight at night. She was used to twelve-hour days, just as any nurse worth her salt should’ve been, but they still left her exhausted. Being a nurse in male surgical could be entirely unpredictable some days, but it was the one type of unpredictable she could handle. So when ten o’clock came and the nurses’ curfew was enforced, she never had any objections or qualms. More than once, she found herself fast asleep well before then, anyway. Sleep, and a healthy sleep schedule, was something she held very high in priority. She wanted to leave the all-nighters behind with her days of study and training and exams. How anyone could manage to work regular night shifts and still keep it together was beyond her. In all honesty, she felt rather sorry for them.

Which didn’t do her much good when, during her two-week winter break, she was issued the new roster to find she’d been placed on a month’s worth of said night shifts. 

She’d immediately gone to Matron, sure there must’ve been some sort of mix-up. Night shifts were for the older and stricter nurses and the newcomers they dragged around unwillingly. It always seemed like a lot more of the urgent surgeries happened overnight, and the nurses on placement were always presented with the chance at ‘real’ experience – really, it was more of an excuse to dupe them into taking the shifts nobody else wanted. Considering their low statuses and their fear of getting on anyone’s wrong side (with the hierarchy in hospitals being as ruthless as it already was), none of them ever declined. But you could always tell who was new in the nurses’ home by who had the darkest eyes and who drank the most coffee; hardly any of those new nurses chose to stick with night shifts, after they were given the option to work days instead.

But there’d been no mistake, only an explanation that they were short-staffed when it came to experienced nurses on overnight placements, and that Patsy had been with them long enough that they were confident she could handle a few ‘late nights’. The underhanded compliment didn’t go unnoticed, but it was hardly appreciated. But, as she wasn’t in much of a position to argue, she allowed herself to be shooed out of the office with her spirits in even worse shape than before.

Patsy wasn’t one to pout and gripe when she didn’t get her way, especially since she had nobody to pout and gripe _to_ , but she had to admit it put her in a bit of a sour mood. Even before she’d even started the night shifts, she was snippier than usual. Luckily, she was just about the only nurse who didn’t go home for Christmas, so there was nobody else to witness her short temper and start spreading theories as to why.

Work resumed on the 27th, but as per every year she started on the 20th, since they were always understaffed over the holidays and she was happy to get away from the festiveness of it all. Initially the redhead was glad, regardless of the hours. She rather hated the holiday – on top of not celebrating it anyway, it was one of the many times of the year that were centred around spending time with family. And out of all those holidays, Christmas seemed to shove that in her face the most. So she was always eager to return to work, to put it all behind her and pretend she didn’t still feel a little empty. 

Trying to stay up on the night of the 15th, and then sleep all of the next day, and then repeat the process in preparation for the night shifts, was absolute agony. There was nothing to do considering there was still a ten o’clock curfew to stick with, and that meant no way to fetch herself more and more coffee when keeping her eyes open became a task. The only thing she had to occupy herself with was reading a textbook or bland romance novel while sucking on a barley sugar. It didn’t do her much good, since the words were starting to swim off the page by one in the morning. The first night, she was face-down on her desk by sunrise, awake again by lunchtime, and tossing and turning restlessly until supper. 

She quickly realized that perhaps the ‘slow and steady’ approach was worth a try. Every night she’d strive to be awake an hour later, and every day she’d attempt to sleep in an hour longer. And when it came time to start working again, she could almost stay awake the whole night.

But almost wasn’t good enough, not to her and not in a hospital. The previous day, she’d slept until half-five in the afternoon, but on the 20th she woke at half-three instead, and spent the rest of her time fretting over whether she’d be able to make it through the night or not. 

As it turned out, staying awake past ten was a lot easier when you had things to do (and in the male surgical ward, there was always something or someone that needed tending to). With all the stretchers that needed cleaning and all the floors that needed scrubbing, Patsy was rather surprised she’d made it to midnight without any coffee at all. And there was a certain solidarity, between her and the other late nurses. One she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it seemed to come with an almost unavoidable need to support each other, more so than usual. While not a social person, Patsy found that she drew a lot of her energy and confidence from this newfound bond. And when she was called in to assist with a late surgery for the first time, she was confident as ever.

It was a two-hour procedure. She wasn’t as self-assured after that.

Between the hours of two and six, she must’ve had half a dozen cups of coffee to keep her going. But by the time her shift ended at eight, she was so exhausted it felt as though she’d taken morphine instead of caffeine. On the plus side, she had no trouble sleeping all day.

She supposed it came as no surprise that, even though she was preoccupied during her shifts, it was still taxing work that required an immense amount of energy to carry on with. More work meant more coffee, and more coffee meant she was itching to do more work because if she sat still for too long she’d go crazy. It was a vicious cycle and the thought of working these hours for an entire month made her eye twitch.

Only a week on from her first night shift, she was still struggling to get into the swing of things. It was hard to rewire her body to rise with the moon instead of the sun, like it was supposed to. But she’d gotten by without much of a fuss, replaying the words often heard from Matron, when some prissy new student nurse from a cushy life in inner London started complaining about the long or odd-hour shifts:

“Sickness and injury doesn’t have a schedule.”

If nothing else, the mantra kept Patsy motivated to impress. While she wasn’t first in line to volunteer for continued night hours, she supposed it was only a month. And rewiring her sleep schedule again wouldn’t be easy, but at the very least they wouldn’t be asking her to do this again anytime soon.

Hopefully. 

Things got far more interesting on the 28th. Only a few seconds after the day had turned over, a gentleman in his thirties was rushed in on a stretcher – unconscious, pale, sickly-looking. Patsy was usually entertaining the idea of coffee by this time, but the sudden influx of commotion that arrived with him was enough of a wakeup call. The rattling of the stretcher out in the hall, and the slight squeak as it was brought to a halt almost right outside the ward itself; the scuffling of the ambulance volunteers’ shoes, their muffled but somewhat frantic conversation; the sobbing of a woman, no doubt the mother or sister or lover of their new patient, as she tried to push past the nurses to see him properly. The doctor on call was there almost immediately – Dr. McDevitt, a rather tall man who had years of experience, but was standoffish enough that not many liked to share shifts with him – and Patsy tried to force off the onset of drowsiness as she stepped out into the already crowded corridor to help. 

For a moment, she worried the bags under her eyes would betray her, and she’d be denied the chance to help and instead be tasked with comforting the crying lady. As decent as her bedside manner was, she wasn’t so good at dealing with the upset and incorrigible. So above all else she was determined to assist the doctor helping this man, and nobody else.

She supposed, in the hurry to assess what the patient needed and how urgently he needed it, Dr. McDevitt wasn’t exactly on the lookout for who was wide awake and who wasn’t. Patsy melted into the action, becoming a part of the unfolding scene with ease. The doctor, around her height, give or take an inch, turned to her almost as soon as she arrived and gestured for her to follow.

Apparently, working in a bustling hospital long enough meant that one just came to know when they were needed to assist in surgery. Sometimes it only took a glance, or a small wave of the hand executed in such a subtly specific way, and she’d know exactly what she was in for. Mentally, Patsy was already prepping herself: running over the differences between scalpel sizes and the most efficient way to scrub down in two minutes. But the more she ran it through her mind, the more nervous she felt.

This was, what? The millionth or so surgery she’d assisted in? It wasn’t that she didn’t know her stuff. She was just…so tired. The thought that she might be too exhausted to effectively assist, to do what she was here to do, was beginning to put her off.

But she was already marching towards theatre in stride with the stretcher, Dr. McDevitt, and a couple of other nurses. So she elected not to say anything. 

Instead she decided to focus on anything but the upcoming operation. McDevitt, though a thorough and experienced professional whom she admired, did have the bad habit of sounding a little boring; as they walked, he rambled through his split-second diagnosis (he had a reputation for being quite accurate, even under timed pressure), and the requirements of the surgery. Likely a burst appendix, it should be a quick procedure unless there were any other complications…etcetera, etcetera…Patsy just couldn’t concentrate on any of it. It sifted into the background, behind the clatter and the fuss and the echoes of other footsteps – like listening to a conversation on the other side of a closed door. 

She loved her job, she really did. Give her a clean-up shift or ward rounds over a glass of whiskey and a book by the fire any day; she’d be content to work until she dropped was what she’d always said. 

But, in this case, she felt like she was about to _literally drop_. All she wanted was to curl up in her own bed and sleep until she remembered what it felt like to be well-rested. Then, and only then, would she be happy to return to the men’s ward and work twelve-hour shifts – during the day, of course. She definitely wouldn’t be raising her hand for more night hours anytime soon, that was for certain…

Her reverie was completely dismantled as she rounded the next corner, expecting to see the looming double doors of the operating theatre and instead running face-first into a nurse who was walking in the complete opposite direction. Patsy didn’t quite have the time to get a good look at her before the collision – all she could process was the rather extreme height difference, apparent by how violently her nose cracked against the other’s forehead, before she found herself on her back within seconds, staring up at the ceiling in a daze.

For a short moment, all she did was lie there on the cold linoleum, too stunned to even blink as she looked directly up into one of the hallway’s many bright lights. There was very little kerfuffle about the whole thing; there was no crashing of cluttering of medical instruments, neither of them made much noise beyond surprised yelps and heavy _thuds_ against the ground. With the lack of people around, nobody was there to make a fuss and rush to their aid. Dr. McDevitt and the nurses had stopped, but had more to worry about than two colliding nurses, so Patsy found herself lying in stunned silence; her leg was tangled beneath the other’s own, and that was the only indication Patsy had that she wasn’t the only one who probably looked like a fool, sprawled on the ground like that. 

Her eyes welled up briefly, her nose stinging and throbbing so painfully that, for a moment, she was sure it was broken. Luckily there was no sudden gush of blood in the aftermath of the accident; hesitantly coming to the conclusion that she was still in one piece, she leaned forward and found, surprisingly, a pale arm extended out towards her. On the other end of it was the other nurse, gingerly pulling herself to her feet, looking just as shocked by the crash but three times as apologetic. Gratefully, Patsy took the offer and pulled herself back to her feet, and shot a thankful but stiff smile at the shorter nurse.

Her first coherent thought was _‘Is that what blue looks like?’_

The question captivated her. For what must’ve been a mere few seconds, but what felt like several minutes, all she could do was stand and wonder whether or not she was actually seeing things correctly. Lots of people seemed to tell their accounts of the one time in preschool when they slipped and cracked their head on the stairs, or when they took a nasty fall off machinery at work, or when they got clocked in the head when they were an outfielder during a cricket match. There were lots of stories from people who said they briefly saw in colour after hitting their head, but so far there wasn’t enough concrete evidence for doctors to come up with anything more than theories. But maybe, perhaps, that’s what she was seeing now: a short-lived hallucination, a misstep of the brain sending the wrong messages to the eyes as it tried to re-route itself after a nasty bump. Not that she felt like she’d hit her head at all. 

But it wasn’t short-lived. She blinked, several times, she shook her head a little – but she could still see blue. Dark and murky, but still vibrant compared to what she was used to. It made her chest feel…something. She didn’t feel lighter or happier, but she didn’t feel constricted or down either. No elation, or anxiety. What she felt wasn’t exactly _electric_ – it was just…calm. 

She felt calm.

It was then that she realised the source of the colour and, as cliché as it sounded, it was unmistakably coming the other girl’s eyes. Eyes that were wide with shock and disbelief and looking her up and down with flitting, erratic movements. 

Patsy was by no means supportive of gambling, but even she’d wager the shorter nurse was going through the same ordeal.

“Nurse.” A slightly impatient voice pulled her away, reluctantly, from the tiny bubble around the girl that tried to hold onto all of her attention. Her head snapped up towards Dr. McDevitt, who wasn’t quick to anger but now, even as he looked at her questioningly, for a sign that she was injured in any way and to go on without her, seemed to be getting a little frantic and short-tempered – with good reason. Sheepishly, Patsy drew her focus back to the (presumably) dying man in the stretcher, and remembered why she was here in the first place. 

She wasn’t good at making decisions, not ones that required her to think empathetically for once. In hindsight, she should’ve feigned a woozy expression and waved him off. She should’ve skipped out on the surgery – only the millionth one she would’ve assisted in, anyway. It was so, so obvious that her attention was needed elsewhere…but her poor decision-making skills shone through valiantly. Her hand, still gripping onto the girl’s arm (which had gone rigid and tense from the shock of it all), hesitated only a moment before pulling out of her grip. For whatever reason, she let her need for habit and familiarity decide for her, and it decided that this man was exponentially more important.

As she caught up with Dr. McDevitt, she briefly considered shooting back an apologetic glance. But, somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to turn her head. She didn’t want to think of how hurt or angry the other nurse might look. Or maybe she was already walking away, as unfazed by it all as Patsy had unintentionally shown herself to be. Either way, the guilt would be too much.

But from the moment the doors to the operating theatre swung closed, she was kicking herself anyway.

* * * * *

If she wasn’t awake before, she certainly was now.

For the first ten minutes, she thought that maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Her vision was shifting on occasion, sure, and her stomach was doing flips upon flips upon flips. Just the nerves, she told herself. It wouldn’t be the first time a social interaction had left her feeling shaken.

Things really jumped out at her now. Hospitals were still bland and colourless, she soon noticed, but now everything she saw felt like it had depth. As she scrubbed down, harder than usual, the faint shine off the antiseptic wash captivated her. Her scrubs, now a dull green, were both dismal as anything and standing out with a new vibrancy. Every little thing from the pink of her nailbeds to the yellow glare of the lights was new and exciting and unfamiliar and…

…Nauseating. 

Patsy was quick to realise just how difficult it was going to be. She was asked several times, upon entering the room up until they’d finished prepping for the surgery, if she was alright. But she insisted again and again that she was fine to stay, each time a little bit more unsure than the last. It wasn’t until she noticed how sickly the man’s bare skin looked, glistening in off-coloured antiseptic under the bright lamps, that she really started to doubt that her rolling stomach was because of nervousness.

Her hand shook slightly as she passed the scalpel, and the minute his abdomen opened up to reveal a dark, visceral shade of red, she well and truly thought she’d either pass out or retch-up all the coffee she’d consumed overnight. It was hard not to look away, knowing that a nurse was just as important as a doctor and that she needed to pay attention. But it was so…bright, and Patsy had never been squeamish, but considering she was already so overwhelmed, this was the best place to start.

She felt no shame, stepping back when one of the other two nurses pointed out how pale she looked, how colourless; she was an older woman, so of course she’d know colour. Suddenly the smell of a sterile environment wasn’t so comforting. It was dizzying. 

It’d been a long time since she’d walked away from a patient that quickly. 

Stepping out into the corridor was like a breath of fresh air. Hospitals were so…insipid. And for once she was thankful of that. Even the overhead lights, that flickered and buzzed eerily (and only seemed to do so during the quiet hours), were washed out and easy on the eyes. Maybe, Patsy thought, getting to the bathroom without nausea or a migraine would actually be something she could accomplish.

That had been her plan, anyway: to hide away in the lavatory. It was the only place she could think of where she knew she’d get peace and quiet. As much as she wanted to lock herself away in her room at the nurses’ home, she was unsure that would be smiled upon. After all, how many people met their soulmates at work? How many people felt sick from it? It was doubtful that any place of work, especially a tightly-run hospital, would allow leaves of absence for such a thing.

She’d never heard of anyone getting ill over this before. But she found herself walking slow, her head spinning horridly. Did everyone feel this way? Was it a detail people just failed to mention, or was she just one of the unlucky few?

Was the other girl feeling the same?

Her heart skipped at the immediate thought of her, although the feeling wasn’t an entirely positive one. Patsy’s view on this whole soulmate thing was, for lack of a better term, _opinionated_. And it was an opinion she didn’t like to share, because God knew the moment she expressed distaste for the norm, everyone in a mile’s radius would tear her to shreds. But, regardless of how she felt about it all, she’d just…left her there. No hello, no goodbye, no introduction. Just pulled away and left her rooted to the spot without so much as glancing back.

And she felt downright awful about it. 

_‘A bloody terrific first impression,’_ she thought bitterly, _‘How can I explain that to her? How am I even going to find her again?’_

But, upon daring to glance up from the cream-coloured floor, she realised (with some shock) that she wouldn’t have to worry about such a thing. Because the brunette was leaned against the wall several metres away, not far from where their initial meeting had been. She stood patiently with her hands clasped together in front of her, scuffing the toe of one shoe against the floor as she watched. And waited. She looked just as nervous, just as confused and wildly thrown off-guard as Patsy felt. 

Between them, there was little movement. Neither wanted to step forward first. Patsy stared at the other nurse. And the other nurse stared back. And for a moment the world felt like it was completely frozen.

“I…I must say, the timing could’ve been better,” was all Patsy could think of. She stayed at a rather awkward distance, leaning her shoulder against the wall and exhaling shakily. Internally, she flinched at how callous she sounded. She was coarse with people even at the best of times, but this was a brand spanking new level of standoffish. 

But who could blame her? Relationships outside of that with one’s soulmate were heavily frowned upon, even today. There was no room for experience or experimentation. Not that she’d have indulged in other relationships, even if it had been allowed in society. But how could people expect her to just _know_ what to say, when she’d never done this before? Surely, she couldn’t be the only person to say something downright stupid on her first meeting; hadn’t anyone taken social awkwardness into consideration? 

She realised, with a weird sinking feeling to her stomach, that the girl standing across and down the hall had yet to say anything. Her head was inclined ever so slightly to the left – her left – and her teeth worried at her lower lip until it was close to bleeding. She was very clearly deep in thought, perhaps about what to do and how to act and what could possibly be an appropriate response. A flush of red rose to her cheeks as she seemed to realise she’d been quiet too long and, slowly, her foot stopped kicking into the ground and instead took a hesitant step forward.

At first it was like watching a baby farm animal of sorts, trying to take its first steps. One foot in front of the next, slightly off-kilter, slowly and hesitantly and not done with one speck of confidence. With the pace she was going, the few metres between them seemed like a much bigger distance. Halfway, she stopped dead in her tracks, dawdling nervously. 

“You’ve gone green,” she said bluntly, and flinched as soon as the words left her mouth.

As mean-spirited as it probably was, Patsy was rather encouraged by the fact that she wasn’t the only one making an idiot of herself.

“Well, you’ve gone red,” she retorted. She gave a weak, yet still rather smug smile as the shorter girl’s face went even darker.

She looked at a loss, and after opening and closing her mouth several times, unable to find the words, took one deep breath and bravely closed the remainder of the gap between them.

“You need some cold water,” she said. Clearly given confidence by taking on the façade of a nurse again. Although she still moved gingerly when putting her hand on the back of Patsy’s shoulder, she was far less jittery and fragile as she steered her down the corridor. 

They walked in silence, and Patsy wasn’t sure whether it was uncomfortable or not. After all, there was so much she needed to say. So much she should say. Instead she just felt like she was doing it wrong.

If nothing else, she was glad they shared the idea of hiding out in the lavatory, instead of any areas where other nurses might be likely to congregate. In here, it wasn’t what Patsy would call comfortable, but at least it was quiet. At least it was colourless. Germs aside, she almost immediately started pulling off the white rubber gloves, flexing her fingers in distaste of the texture and rinsing them under one of the taps. 

“…My mam calls it ‘colour sickness’,” the girl piped up, “She said she had it for a week, when she met my dad.” She shuffled up to Patsy’s side, standing within her peripheral vision and watching her turn her hands under the tap, over and over and over, splashing cool water on her face every moment or so. Patsy glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, and paused. Slowly, she reached up and twisted the squeaky tap. With a slight groan, the water stopped running, and they were left in silence once again. The nurse shrank back a little, and started chewing her lip again nervously.

It was a rather useless fact, the colour sickness, but at the very least it told Patsy that she wasn’t the only one in existence to feel this way. Even if it sounded like more of an old wives’ tale than a supported medical condition, it did make it slightly less embarrassing. The key word being ‘slightly’. 

“What were you doing in the hall?” Patsy asked. She had to have been in the operating room for ten minutes, at least – an awfully long time to be lingering around by oneself.

At this, her companion seemed to gain a bit of confidence. She straightened up and knitted her eyebrows together, looking Patsy directly in the eye.  
“Well I wasn’t going to risk it,” she said seriously, “What if I couldn’t find you again? It’s hard enough finding someone when you need to around here.”

Her solemn tone melted away into a demurer expression, and Patsy felt her heart twist. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that other people felt differently to her about certain things, but this girl was well and truly _worried_ that they might have lost track of each other. 

Patsy pressed her lips together, trying (and failing) to suppress a smirk. 

“I have to agree with you on that,” she sighed, “Although I doubt you’d have had much trouble. I’m one of the taller nurses in male surgical. I even overshadow some of the doctors.”

Despite herself, the other nurse let slip a short giggle. 

“I think Dr. Bowman is just so short, you look ten feet by comparison,” she jested, her voice hushed. Her hand covered over her mouth, but her eyes were wide and shining and brighter than they were before. 

Patsy turned away from the sink, giving her full attention now. “So you’re new, then,” she guessed. It wasn’t too hard to figure out: the cautiousness, the awkward way she stood in her uniform like she hadn’t gotten used to the sleeves yet, the heavy rings under her eyes. And then there was the obvious: the fact that she worked on male surgical as well, and yet they’d never seen each other before. She’d have to have been trailing after an older nurse most nights, otherwise Patsy was sure she’d have seen her at least once during her night shifts before now.

Then again, she’d admit she went out of her way to avoid interacting with her peers more often than not. 

The other nodded, looking rather proud of herself. “I finished my exams and placements earlier this year.”

Patsy raised an eyebrow. This girl didn’t look too much younger than her – then again, she had a rather round and innocent-looking face. Were she not in a nurse’s uniform, Patsy may’ve mistaken her for a lot, lot younger. 

The girl shuffled nervously and Patsy had to admit, she didn’t miss the way the other wiped the palm of her hand nervously against her hip before extending it outward.

“I’m Delia,” she said hopefully. 

Patsy wanted to point out that a handshake was a rather odd way to greet one’s soulmate. But she thought better of herself, considering the…rather nontraditional events of the night thus far, and grasped her hand firmly. 

“Patience. But everyone calls me Patsy.”

Delia beamed up at her, cheeks flushed again. Patsy felt her own face heating up and instinctively pulled her hand back with a nervous smile. Maybe she pulled away a little too quickly. Not wanting to continue sending all the wrong messages, she reached back to loosen the stiff green fabric around her head. She probably looked like a fool, anyhow, standing in the women’s bathroom in her scrubs. 

She scrunched the cap up in her hands and smoothed back a strand of hair that’d come loose; she caught Delia’s gaze and she looked…not shocked, but close to it. Her eyes were wide and glued to Patsy’s face in awe. And only a moment of confusion passed before the taller of the two caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, out of the corner of her eye, and realised that it was more likely Delia was looking at her hair.

Her stomach, which had since started to settle, gave another weak flip at the colour. It was…well, it wasn’t blood, but it was only a few shades shy of it. But it was no doubt the brightest hue in the room and just like Delia, Patsy couldn’t quite keep her eyes off it.

“I was blonde earlier this year,” she murmured, scrutinising her reflection before shaking her head and looking away, “But it was far too light for my tastes. I thought this shade would look more natural. Ginger, the hairdresser called it…” She sighed, “Clearly it only looks good in black and white.”

“I love it,” Delia blurted, then snapped her mouth shut. Patsy just about laughed at how dark her face was now – it was very nearly the same as her hair. 

“It…” the brunette squirmed, struggling to gather up her courage while simultaneously keep it reeled in, “It’s so bright. I didn’t think any colour in the world could look like that…”

The way she admired it, made this whole ordeal seem like something more exciting than Patsy felt it to be…it was hard not to feel vaguely uplifted by that. While not exactly jumping for joy, the newfound redhead started to feel less and less like she could keep a smile from creeping up on her.

“Then maybe black and white doesn’t do it justice,” she suggested. 

Delia sighed, clearly relieved. “It certainly looks prettier in colour.”

Patsy felt like pointing out that most of the world probably did, but she thought better of it. Maybe that’d be the wrong thing to say. And Delia was looking happier and happier and happier by the second. Too happy to risk bringing the mood down. She was positively beaming, like the weight of the situation was still gradually dawning on her more and more by the minute. 

It was still dawning on Patsy, too. That this was _it_. Delia was the person she knew she’d be waiting for all her formative years. Things were in colour, there was no going back, and eventually she’d wonder how she could ever stand greyscale. People would envy her. People would be forever asking her to recount the story of how they met, and they’d sigh and get all dreamy-eyed when she did. They’d be telling each other stories about the kinds of people they were before they met, and they’d keep telling them until there were no more stories left to tell. And Delia would be _right_ there beside her, because they were going to be inseparable now. They were going to move out of the nurses’ home and into a nearby flat and share absolutely everything from a room to a life.

And Patsy wished she could be as excited about it as Delia was.

She was more preoccupied with the idea that she had to do all this stuff, even if she didn’t want to. 

Seemingly unaware of her internal predicament, Delia glanced down at the watch pinned to her uniform and hissed under her breath. Patsy gave it a quick glimpse herself and frowned. Half-past twelve. They’d been here for maybe ten minutes, but that was long enough for anyone to notice an absence. And Delia had been waiting around outside surgery for an extra ten, on top of that. 

“I’m in for it this time,” she groaned.

Patsy ignored that it sounded like this wasn’t the first time she’d gone missing on shift. “Do you suppose they’ll go easier on us if we turn up together?”

Delia sighed and shook her head, already trying to flatten down her apron (despite it being in pristine condition), “That might just make it worse. But thank you,” she gave Patsy a weak smile, awkwardly rocking back on her heels.

“Can I meet you somewhere?” she asked, “After our shift is done – only for a moment! I know we’ll be exhausted by then. Maybe out front of the hospital?”

She’d started to ramble a little, once more going bright red. Despite herself, Patsy found it…rather endearing. “We could always walk back to the nurses’ home together. You can keep me from falling asleep on the sidewalk on the way,” she jested. 

Looking a little breathless, Delia nodded hurriedly, starting to glance at her watch every few second. Despite it being a few years back now, Patsy was all too easily reminded of how easily panicked she was as a new nurse. 

“Go. I might need a minute or two more,” she sighed, waving her hand towards the door and trying her best to look sympathetic. 

Delia smiled at her thankfully. She didn’t look like she _wanted_ to leave but if Patsy knew anything about being a nurse, it was that fear of incurring the Matron’s wrath trumped all other wants and needs. So after a moment of consideration, Delia made what they’d both agree was the right decision and scurried out the door and back towards male surgical. 

Once again in pure silence, Patsy turned back to the mirror. She blinked at it several times, waiting for the possible moment when euphoria and joy overtook her to arrive. But it didn’t. She was certainly in shock – it felt like the entire world had stopped spinning and her heart was sitting in her ears. 

Her reflection stared back at her. Colourful and vibrant and…like an entirely different person. Her eyes, she noticed, hardly looked any different to how they did before – they were pale blue, but were so close to grey that she may as well have just continued to call them that. They were nothing like the blue Delia’s eyes were: dark and relaxing with tiny pinpricks of lighter blue dotted through them. They were astounding, and now they were all Patsy could think of.

Her mother had always told her, when she was young, that you never forget the first colour you see. Which, for the past twenty-six or so years, seemed horridly cliché. She always rolled her eyes at it as a kid, and she would’ve rolled her eyes at it yesterday. But now? She found herself starting to understand. Delia wasn’t about to be her favourite person in the world – she’d have to earn that, with time, like everyone else regardless of who they were to each other – but she could admit that she found that shade of blue to be absolutely gorgeous. 

Patsy had never given much thought for colour. She supposed it’d never really mattered to her before now. But, although she was far too proud to admit it, she was starting to think that that specific shade of blue was already her favourite colour in the world.


	3. Daffodils

**March 6th, 1960**  
**11:26am**  
The following week passed by in a blur.

Every single day, Patsy returned to the hospital without fail. Each time was a little less nerve-wracking than the last; every hour that she could put between them and the accident, the more assured she felt that things would be fine. Or, at the very least, that Delia would survive. Each day she looked a little perkier, a little brighter. And she was becoming more and more herself: she was starting to get restless and impatient with being bedbound, wanting nothing more than to stretch her legs a little. She always begged Patsy to ask to take her on a short walk through the halls, perhaps hoping she’d be a little better at convincing someone to say yes. But the doctor wouldn’t allow it, what with how frequently she still became vague and unresponsive. Every time he checked on her, she’d pester him to let her out of bed – and scowl at his turned back when he inevitably ordered her to stay put. 

Her memory seemed no closer to returning. Every day she still spoke to Patsy with vague unfamiliarity; still gazing fondly at her wedding ring as if it were brand new, still slow to lean into or initiate physical contact. But despite this, she tried so _hard_ to keep with it during their conversations, to hang onto every word and not allow herself to space out. When Patsy spoke about what things were like before the accident, she didn’t want to miss a single detail. 

Most days she was too tired to speak much, so Patsy often found herself doing most of the talking. She wasn’t often this vocal, even in the privacy of their flat, but now she just couldn’t help herself. Mostly she talked about her day, seeing as how she often had to wait until the end of her shifts to visit. She talked about what kind of things she’d seen on district, what the weather was like outside, the number of gulls she’d counted down at the docks, how many babies she’d delivered. Delia asked questions, when she felt up to it – about how many of the babies were girls and how many were boys, whether it was particularly busy on the streets that day, what she had eaten for breakfast. Little details that Patsy wouldn’t have thought twice about, had she not been asked. But Delia thrilled at her answers, regardless of how ordinary they were.

And that was the pattern: she listened, Patsy talked, and they took pauses as long as necessary when the Welsh girl suddenly lost her attention, until she snapped back to the here and now with a small apology. That was how their days looked, from the moment Patsy was allowed in, until the moment a nurse had to ask her to leave.

She always left the hospital confident she’d brightened Delia’s day, made her time in the hospital just a little more bearable. But by the time she returned to the empty flat – or Nonnatus, when the day had been just too difficult to face alone – she was shaking and tearful and empty again.

The days melted into one another, accumulating into a foggy, forgetful mess with each new one that passed. Sometimes it felt like she was staring at a painting from far away. It was all just some…indistinct muddle of midwifery, hospital visits, and sleepless nights. Try as she might she just couldn’t make out the finer details or decipher any sort of pattern. It was all just shapes and hues, but even they were fuzzy at best. The more she squinted, tried to make sense of it, the less corporeal it looked to her. 

At some point or another it’d all been crystal clear but now, visiting Delia had become an ever-growing cigarette burn in the centre of the canvas, eating away at the rest of her life with terrifying haste. The more it ate up, the harder it became to remember everything in a distinct order. Had she eaten an egg for breakfast yesterday or the day before? Surely it’d be easy to remember – at least, she assumed it would be. But she was just spending too much mental energy to keep all the little specifics in order.

It went without saying, but her day off for the week couldn’t come fast enough.

Patsy wasn’t one to count down to a day that she _didn’t_ have to work, but this seemed to be one of those rare exceptions. Come Sunday (now that she had those free, instead of Saturdays), she couldn’t jump out of bed fast enough. She wasn’t about to pass up the chance to make full use of The London’s visiting hours. Even if said hours didn’t begin until eleven. 

Sister Julienne asked if she’d join them in their morning prayers, and when the offer was politely declined she went on to insist that Patsy eat breakfast with the rest of them, as per usual. She implored her to sit and eat, despite how antsy she’d become, under the guise that she wouldn’t be seeing her fellow nurses all day and they’d like to have at least one meal with her before she made her trip to the hospital. Begrudgingly, Patsy obliged.

As they ate, her housemates took obvious care to place her directly in the centre of all topics of conversation, to keep her well-distracted. Nobody even mentioned the upcoming hospital visit, or Delia – Patsy was grateful for the brief pause amidst the chaos that’d been this week, and that she’d been made to stay for at least one meal.

That was the trouble with her. If left to her own devices, she probably would’ve gone the entire day without even considering that she needed food. She was good at that: she could care only for herself, or only for others. These two actions were mutually exclusive. The very moment she applied herself to the care and wellbeing of another person, however briefly, thoughts of her own flew out the window.

When she finally left Nonnatus House, she rather suspected this was the exact reason Sister Julienne had asked her to stay a while longer.

Normally, Patsy wouldn’t ride her bike from Nonnatus to The London, and instead relied on a bus to take her there. But, part-way through breakfast, she’d begun entertaining the idea of buying flowers. Something to brighten up the dismal hospital ward. Delia adored flowers – or…she used to, at least.

She probably still did, Patsy reminded herself. So far, nothing about her had really changed, other than the way she acted towards the redhead. 

The first couple of visits had been awkward at best: Delia was eager for them to spend time together, that much was obvious. But she seemed at such a loss for what to say. She treated Patsy like a new acquaintance but, gradually, she’d been gaining confidence with her. Talking more when she could, shying away less. By now she didn’t fumble as much. She was growing gradually more comfortable. But every question she had was still preceded by anxiousness and hesitation.

It really was like they were meeting for the first time, all over again.

From the moment Patsy had woken up and looked out her window, the weather had been downright lousy. The sky was a worryingly dark shade of grey. As she rode to the Sunday market after breakfast, she was cursing herself the whole way for not bringing her umbrella. With each minute that passed the clouds looked closer and closer to giving way to a torrential downpour. As she browsed a stall of flowers (fresher than what they sold at the florist, which strayed from her route to The London, anyway), everyone around her seemed to be glancing up at the skies nervously too. 

She was rather afraid of being indecisive, and spending far too long here trying to pick something, but almost the moment she brought her bike up to the stand, her eyeline snagged on a particularly bright bunch of yellow daffodils. 

Delia had always insisted on keeping at least one vase of flowers in their flat, but Patsy didn’t think they’d ever had daffodils. But for some odd, inexplicable reason, they seemed to bring a whole slew of memories rushing back. Maybe it was the neat bouquet they’d been arranged into, or maybe it was the colour, or maybe it was just that her heart was aching just a little too much right now – whatever it was, she couldn’t not buy them. 

The girl manning the stall was fourteen, at the very oldest. She cocked her head at the sight of the bike and, despite Patsy being out of uniform, immediately pinned her as a Nonnatun. Then she launched into a story about how her mum only had a baby a few days ago, and how nice ‘the light-haired nurse’ had been to them. After a moment’s consideration, she seemed to decide that even though Patsy was very obviously not the same nurse, she’d still sell her the flowers at a fraction of the price.

“You see in colour, nurse?” she asked, handing over some string for Patsy to tie them together with.

The redhead was rather caught off-guard by the question. She looked up, eyes a little wide, before giving a weak smile and nodding.

The girl nodded with her solemnly. “I could tell,” she said, “Most people who buy flowers on their own smell ‘em first. And they go through heaps before they can decide. But you just looked at ‘em.”

Patsy wanted to laugh at the observation. “I can’t say I gave flowers much thought before colour,” she admitted, “They weren’t terribly attractive to me in greyscale. I dare say you’ll adore them as much as my Delia does, when you see how they can brighten up a room.”

On a rather heart-warming note, Patsy pushed off on her bike once again, slowly pedalling through the crowd of people. The pretty bouquet of daffodils remained pristine, wrapped up in brown paper and tied steadfast to her handlebars. She was far too nervous about them getting ruined to risk resting them in the black canvas on the back of her bike, however neatly. As luck would have it, they stayed put for the entire bumpy journey to the hospital – and the moment she stepped in through the front doors with them in hand, it began to rain.

By now, Delia anticipated her arrivals, which were almost pinned down to on-the-dot timing. However, this was usually in the late afternoons; entering the head trauma ward at half-eleven in the morning, Patsy found the brunette sitting up in bed with a tray of food pushed to the side. She was lolling her head around, watching nurses and doctors come and go with a bored expression. 

Her eyes trailed a particular nurse, who had been checking her vitals, all the way to the door, where they landed on Patsy and immediately widened with surprise. A Cheshire-like grin spread across her face after only a moment of disbelief, and she sat forward eagerly. Patsy could see she was antsy to get out of bed and come over herself, but seeing as how the doctor was only across the hall, within line of sight, she’d likely just be put right back. So she stayed put, albeit not gladly.

“You’re looking much better,” Patsy commented as she approached, pulling the faithful yet still dreadfully uncomfortable plastic chair closer to the bed. 

Of course, Delia was visibly improving every day – physically, at least, it was obvious. But Patsy still liked to point it out. 

One of Delia’s hands was already reached towards her. Patsy grasped onto it tightly, holding the small arrangement of flowers in the other. Where a year ago, even the slightest amount of intimacy had her recoiling as though she’d touched a live wire, now it just felt like second nature. In the past several months it was almost like a force of habit: to reach out and hold Delia’s hand when her own had nothing else to do, sometimes without realising she’d done so until the other gave it a small squeeze and turned her chin upward to smile at her lovingly.

“And they finally washed the dirt from under your nails,” she commented, lifting up said hand to examine it closely and sheepishly kissing the backs of her fingers.

“Mhm.” Delia nodded, biting down on her lip to try preventing her smile from growing any larger, “They gave me a bed-bath this morning.” Although she looked rather displeased about it – which Patsy found unsurprising, given that she’d never enjoyed _giving_ bed-baths in the first place – she was brightening more and more by the second. Not even the awkwardness of a stranger bathing her (on a cold morning, too, poor thing) could put a damper on her spirits. Despite the…sudden strain put on their relationship, she sincerely looked as though she couldn’t be happier that Patsy was here with her.

And then she saw the daffodils, and Patsy found herself proven wrong as Delia’s expression morphed from simple contentedness to pure joy. 

“Oh. Uh. They’re…They’re for you,” Patsy stammered, hurriedly lying the flowers across her lap. The brunette took her hand back to properly inspect the daffodils. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at them inquisitively. Patsy could only watch, finding herself unable to do anything but grin widely at the interaction.

“They’re beautiful…” Delia murmured distantly. She buried her nose in the small arrangement curiously. Her toes curled beneath the bedsheets. “And they smell lovely.”

“Careful,” Patsy warned, “If you start sneezing, they’ll blame me and kick me out for sure. And I only just got here.”

Lifting her eyes from the flowers eventually, Delia turned her attention back to Patsy, positively beaming at her. “I love them. Thank you.”

Feeling her cheeks starting to burn a little, the redhead smiled and gently intertwined their fingers again. “Yellow was your favourite colour. I thought maybe…you’d still at least like it.”

At this, Delia was intrigued. She lifted an eyebrow over the bouquet. “It was?” Patsy nodded, but her spouse didn’t seem entirely convinced at what she was being told. “I thought red was my favourite. Because of your hair.”

“Oh. Well.” Patsy’s face flushed darker. She was always rather flattered to hear that; honestly, Delia liking the colour of her hair was the only reason it’d stayed ginger this long. She’d sort of thought she might go to light brown next. But then the small Welsh girl started to fuss over it and, well…she just couldn’t resist.

“You always said you loved every colour. Sometimes you had a different answer every week. But you did take a particular shine to yellow. There was a very specific shade called ‘canary’ that you insisted on painting our room. And you always said yellow flowers smelled the best.”

“They _do_ smell wonderful…” Delia agreed. She’d seemed to have decided that she believed this story about herself; she gazed at the flowers almost dreamily. When a nurse came by and offered to place them in a vase, she was almost reluctant to part with them for even a moment. 

A silence fell between them. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was a vast improvement from the tension that had settled between them these past several days. Patsy noted, rather sardonically, that the tables seemed to have been turned on her. Only a year ago, it’d been _her_ who stared at their intertwined hands, not sure she was entirely comfortable with it or not, while Delia remained caught up in a cloud of doe-eyed adoration. 

But Delia, she reminded herself, was soft and affectionate by nature, and nothing about her personality had yet to be changed by her accident thus far. Perhaps, if her memory didn’t return (and it _would_ return, it had to), she’d fall back into love as if nothing had ever happened. They were ‘meant to be’, after all – as much as Patsy still detested that phrase. 

“Have you been having anymore seizures?” she asked, and immediately squeezed her eyes shut with a sigh. 

_‘Okay, Patsy, maybe you shouldn’t ask her that,’_ she scolded herself. It was more a question for the doctor, when he came by. Not something to ask openly, and risk ruining what little cheeriness they’d salvaged today.

Delia, thankfully, looked far from offended.

“You sound like a nurse again,” she pointed out, poking her tongue between her teeth teasingly as Patsy rolled her eyes. 

“This may come as a shock, Deels, but that’s because I am a nurse,” she teased right back with a smirk. 

Delia giggled. It was a beautiful sound, Patsy thought to herself. Her favourite sound in the world, maybe. 

But after a moment the brunette sighed, and turned her attention to the blankets covering her, picking at them idly. She gave a tiny shrug. “No, I haven’t,” she murmured, “Not since you last asked.” 

Patsy nodded slowly. Her eyes were focused on the hospital bed as well, her fingers absently plucking at the hem of the sheets. Sometimes it was just too difficult to keep a brave face _and_ maintain eye contact all at once. “Do you…” she drew in a shaky breath, the air stinging her already chapped lips, “Do you remember anything…at all?”

Her question was met with a discouraging stretch of silence. She glanced up through the corner of her eye eventually, only to see Delia shaking her head. She looked downtrodden as Patsy felt. Frowning, she cautiously took hold of Delia’s hand again. She’d thought as much, but deep down she was allowing her hopes to get dangerously high; by now she thought she’d have learned to keep a level head and think realistically. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

The younger woman lifted her head nervously, her mouth twisting into a worried pout at the lack of any kind of response. “Do you think I will?”

Now Patsy found herself _really_ wishing she hadn’t asked. Guilt stirred up in her chest at Delia’s expression. It was easy to put a name to what she was feeling: hesitant fear. She’d seen it in patients heaps of times, and she’d experienced it herself. It was a shaky, hollow feeling that made her chest feel like it was moulded out of foil – each individual rib jagged and weak and ready to give way at any moment. And while she knew there was a damn good chance that things weren’t going to turn out in her favour, she was still not entirely sure if she should be afraid or not. 

“I sure hope so.” Was all she could think of. With a weak smile, she pressed Delia’s hand against her lips and peered at her lover over the top of it. 

Right now, a brave face was all she could give her.

They were quiet for a long time. Delia turned her head to look at the flowers, which were resting in a mint green vase on the little bedside table. They took up all of her attention, and who was Patsy to try and divert it? She was content to sit in total silence, simply pressing the smaller girl’s hand against her cheek and watching her, feeling nothing short of pure adoration well up in her chest. 

Love was a beautiful emotion. For the life of her, Patsy couldn’t quite understand why she’d deprived herself of it for so long. 

They stayed like that, almost frozen, for ten minutes at least. She watched Delia, while Delia watched the daffodils, while the daffodils sat in the sat in the sunlight that barely filtered through into the luminescent hospital ward. They didn’t look nearly as lovely as they had outside, even on an overcast day. Maybe, hopefully, Delia would be discharged soon enough that she’d get to take them home, and see them properly. 

Patsy doubted it. 

“What’s _your_ favourite colour?” Delia asked. She’d been quiet so long that Patsy assumed she was in the midst of another spell. The doctors said it was kind of like sleepwalking: it was better to let her come out of it herself than risk startling her. 

The sudden question made her jump a little. Delia still watched the flowers intently, head titled lazily against the starched white pillow, her eyes half-lidded and teary. She gave no other indication that she was present in the here and now. In fact, Patsy wasn’t all too sure that she was, until she turned her head and gave her a patient, expectant look. 

“Oh. Sorry. It’s blue.”

“How come?”

Patsy blinked a few times, then lifted her eyebrows curiously, “Come again?”

“Why is it your favourite?” Delia repeated. She looked as though she was still entertaining the idea of the colour even existing, “You said I could never choose. You must really like blue, if you’re so sure of it.”

“Well, I…” Her mouth twisted up, her cheeks going pink. 

The answer was easy and simple. It’d been the first colour she’d ever seen. The first one to ever captivate her so intensely she almost forgot her own name. And sure, it was only the _specific_ shade of azure she could find in Delia’s eyes that she favoured above all others. But when she wasn’t around, the shade of a clear sky or antique vase or small flower was similar enough to be a pleasant reminder. It’d certainly been one of the little things that had helped her through this past week alone.

But that was far too sappy for her liking. In the entire time she’d known Delia, despite the number of things they’d told each other in a year alone, Patsy always kept that piece of trivia to herself. She flustered far too easy at all things soft and mushy. Not that that came as a surprise to anyone.

“Blue is everywhere,” she answered, “And it’s always pretty. It’s the only colour I can think of that could never be ugly, no matter how dark or bright it is…”

Well, it wasn’t a lie, was it? It was an extraordinary colour. And she supposed, without the romantic bias, she probably still would’ve chosen it above the others. “That, and I’m always told I look stunning when I wear it,” she added wryly. 

Delia snorted and smiled weakly, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. She leaned back against the propped-up pillows and Patsy realised, a little sadly, that she was starting to look awfully tired. 

It was then that her knowledge of bedside manner came to an abrupt halt, considering she’d never had family or friends to visit in hospital. Should she leave Delia to sleep? That seemed to be the most reasonable option, although she had to admit, she didn’t really want to leave. She’d much rather sit here and wait for her to wake up again, rather than spend the rest of her day off milling about uselessly and stewing in her own anxiety. 

“Tired, love?” she sighed. She placed Delia’s hand back on the bed, patting it gently. Leaving might’ve been for the best. To be stuck in bed with serious head trauma and having to spend time with someone who – as far as Delia was aware – she didn’t know well, must’ve felt exhausting. 

With a heavy sigh, she slowly got out of her chair. She leaned over the hospital bed and, as carefully as she could, pressed a quick kiss against Delia’s cheek. Sniffling, she gave her a gentle smile. Delia looked rather confused. 

“Oh, please don’t leave,” she whispered, “You only just got here,”

Patsy had learned, rather soon after they’d met, that her Welsh counterpart had a certain knack for looking just the right amount of miserable when it suited her. It could make just about anyone melt, and it certainly made it hard to say no – especially now, when the alternative to doing as she asked was to knowingly leave her in the hospital by herself.

So Patsy conceded, without any sort of fuss. Before she could retake her seat, she felt Delia’s hand weakly tugging at her coat. Gingerly asking her to sit down on the edge of the bed instead. With some hesitance, the redhead obliged, resting arm over Delia’s middle and fretting over her fringe with her other hand.

“Are you sure?” she checked, “You look like you might fall asleep any moment…”

“If I do, will you still stay?” Delia asked hopefully, stifling a yawn against the back of her arm.

Considering Patsy had nothing else to do anyway, there was nothing to really stop her from saying yes. In all her time working as a nurse, she did notice that being a patient was a dreary business. There were only so many books you could read, so many patterns you could make out in the ceiling, before the boredom drove you mad. She didn’t at all blame Delia for wanting someone to spend time with her.

“Luckily for us, I have the whole day off,” she confided in a low voice, like it was a deep secret that nobody else could know about, “And I should like to spend as much of it as I can here, with you.”

Delia grinned – or, came as close to grinning as she could while getting sleepier and sleepier. “Here tomorrow?” she asked vaguely. 

“Yes, I’ll be here tomorrow.” Patsy nodded, “As soon as I can, once my shift ends. I rarely ride my bike this way, if I can help it. And taking the bus can be dreadful on a Monday afternoon.”

As she wriggled back down to lie flat on the mattress (dragging the pillow down with Patsy’s help), Delia frowned. Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion as she curled up as best she could. “You don’t work here anymore?” 

After a long pause, Patsy shook her head. “Right, sorry,” she said, “No. I left, a few weeks after we met.”

At this, Delia started to look a little worried. “How come? Was it because of…” She pointed to herself.

“Yes. And no. It’s…complicated.” Patsy frowned, absently smoothing her hand over Delia’s hair, “Most places won’t let you work with your soulmate, anyhow. But I think when I told Matron, she assumed things would play out differently to what they did.” 

She smirked wryly at the memory. It’d been a rather big decision for her, to transfer from The London and change the routines she’d become so familiar with. But her choice had been made purely out of spite and hot-headedness – with a touch of sleep deprivation. With a year’s worth of hindsight under her belt, she found it all to be quite amusing. It’d certainly never been how she’d ever imagined she’d resign from _any_ job.

“You see, Deels, after we parted ways, I realised I…” she began, but her story tapered to a quick stop as she glanced down at the brunette. She was awake, but barely, and between her mind and her body, the former seemed to have run out of energy first. Delia stared ahead with half-closed eyes, her line of sight missing Patsy’s face entirely and settling on a much more distant object – the wall, perhaps, or the door. Her attention span had fizzled out completely, soon to be replaced by sleep, and Patsy realised quickly enough that she wouldn’t be telling what she thought was a rather amusing tale for another few hours. At least. 

Gently as possible, she brushed the stray strands of Delia’s fringe away from her eyes. She leaned down and kissed her on the cheek again, lingering just a second or two longer. The thought crossed her mind that she should sit back in that awful chair before a nurse (or worse, the Matron) scolded her, but a quick glance towards the doors showed no signs of anyone coming in anytime soon. So she opted to stay sitting as close to Delia as she was able.

“I’ll tell you later, darling,” she whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> hey...i'm shit at updating fics in a timely manner. but if fanart is more your scene anyway my CTM blog is deliabubsy. you should like...check it out cuz i'm less of a disappointment there :'D


End file.
